


Requiem

by Elle_est_vivant



Category: Grumbo - Fandom, Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Death, Hope vs. Despair, M/M, Pandemics, Plague, Religion, descriptions of disease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24626932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle_est_vivant/pseuds/Elle_est_vivant
Summary: But there is hope.But is there hope.In all seriousness, is there hope.Is there hope for those two. Buried in an era of misfortune, of orthodoxy, of love but only retained love.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. Introït et Kyrie

Requiem aeternam

Dona eis

Domine

Et lux perpetua luceat

Luceat eis

Te decet hymnus Deus

In Sion

Et tibi reddetur votum

In Jerusalem

Exaudi orationem meam

Ad te omnis caro veniet

Omnis caro

Veniet

Kyrie eleison

Christe eleison

Christe eleison


	2. Requiem

The year was sixteen sixty five. Charles was an ordinary tailor, living in a town in northern England, the town was Eyam, not famous, not large, not busy, a tranquil village with a few hundreds of people.

Charles was twenty four. Legit for marriage, in fact, his rather stable occupation and his nice blue eyes drew more than enough young girls to his door. They would come with the excuse of needing new dresses to this tailor, yet not bringing any money. Charles was never married though, for some reason. Not even to the merchant’s daughter who had a rich mother down in London. He lived his simple life, making clothes, greeting clients, shopping for supplies, nothing extraordinary.

Oliver was twenty six. Reverend Oliver Brotherhood, they say, a young priest, studied theology since he could read, the most educated in town. He always wore a black robe, a silver cross, and lived on the kind countryfolk’s bread. He hosts mass every day, baptism, wedding, funeral. He dedicated his entire life to God and books, not interested in anything else it seemed. People respected him for his occupation and his wisdom. He lived his simple life, waking up early, praying, teaching the young, nothing unexpected.

They’ve all died of the Black Death.

There is not a lot of entertainments back then. People talk, they work, they banter, sometimes the newest fashion from London or Paris flies in town, they chat about that for a few days. Sometimes a humble lad marries a beautiful girl, they celebrate for a few days. Sometimes nothing happens, and they find conversations from their everyday lives. Some people are learned, reverend Oliver being one of them if not the only one of them, some people want to become learned, most people are among these, listening to the stories told by the reverend. Have you ever heard about the renaissance? There’s people saying that the Earth moves around the Sun, there’s people painting magnificent paintings on the walls. Have you ever heard of Florence, or the Gutenberg press, or Descartes? Now you have, the people of Eyam would say, now you have after talking to reverend Oliver.

Most people never get to go to school. Especially before reverend Oliver began teaching the children. Oliver settled in this town when he was twenty and the old priest passed away, he was educated elsewhere, before him Eyam was a barren land for literature and philosophy. That doesn’t mean the people are ignorant though. Charles, for example, loves conversing with reverend Oliver. He wants to know about Florence, and the press, and Descartes, although sometimes the conversation gets indecipherable for him. How would a tailor know about a machine that produces passages which he most likely couldn’t understand? However he still loves to converse and gain more wisdom every now and then. Or maybe not the wisdom. Charles enjoys time with Oliver in general, a serious but kind, formal but caring person. He taught him how to greet people in France or Italy - bonjour or buongiorno -, he explained to him how Florence was the center of renaissance, how those paintings are called frescos, everything Charles asks. Never frustrated by the simplicity of his student, or rather very good friend’s mind when it comes to philosophy and theology.

Maybe we can go to Florence one day, Oliver says. Maybe we could visit the great cathedrals and see the great artworks.

  
Where is Florence?

  
It’s in Italy. Remember Dante Alighieri? Remember Galileo? Remember Michelangelo? They’re all from Florence.

  
Where is Italy?

  
Far, far away from Eyam.

  
Even further than Paris?

  
Yes, even further than Paris.

  
How would we get there?

  
Save money, get to London, ships, horses, feet. Maybe one day we could accomplish this.

  
Now I really want to visit Florence. With you.

  
Me too, Charles. Oliver moves closer to his friend, the dusk closing in on the town, the sky a vibrant bloody orange, the two young men sitting on a bench next to the chapel, facing the sunset.

After all people still have to work. Charles returned to his workshop, finding a neatly packed package lying at his doorstep.

The newest fashion from Paris always takes a while to get to London. Then it always take a while to go up north, to Birmingham, stay there for a while, and after the people in Birmingham had enough of the fashion, they spread it to other towns, feeling superior for knowing the fashion a few days in advance than them while ignoring the fact that Paris and London knew it faster than them. Then it takes either a day or half a month to get to Eyam, and by that time new fashions has already appeared in Paris. It’s random, no one knows.

Charles opens the package, beautiful, premium fabrics, silk from the Orient, the finest linen from Cleopatra’s empire, the delicate embroideries from Reims and Burgundy, things of such. What a nice batch of fabric, Charles thinks. Pity that the soft off white linen is wet. That’s okay, linens can be dried normally next to a fireplace and won’t leave the tiniest of marks. He hangs the linen on the long rod next to the fireplace, folds and puts away the rest up in the cabinet, and goes to bed.

The fireplace burns. It burns through the night, the flames dancing, flourishing, unlike what the town will become in a few days.

The rats in the London sewers is flourishing, unlike what the town will become in a few days. They carry fatal atmospheres with them, creatures so dangerous that once they come into contact with you, you die. Once the thing they touch comes in contact with you, you die. God’s wrath, they say, God’s wrath. You sin, you die, your family die, your neighbors die. Plague, just like the one upon the Egyptians when they kept Moses for too long.

The rats are not hygienic in the London sewers. They don’t have bathrooms. They don’t have cemeteries. Everywhere in sight there is filth, and not even the richest people can avoid them completely. They are everywhere. In the gardens of Windsor, in the polished high class jeweler’s places, in the top grade fabric storages.

The rats of London sewers.

Meanwhile the fatal atmosphere spreads in Charles’s small room.

He breathed peacefully, the flames illuminating his face.

Reverend Oliver is out of town, shopping for groceries. He is pretty busy today, trying to get a good deal of papers and notebooks for the children, needing food himself, the chapel’s incense supply is short. It’s soon dusk again, the sunset a beautiful soft violet pink. Not as beautiful as yesterday back in Eyam, he thinks, not as vibrant, not as as full of passion. Good for making oneself calm though. Maybe I’ll stay the night. There’s no urgencies to get back. It’s Saturday tomorrow, the children don’t have classes anyway.

  
He settles down in an inn, the innkeeper is a nice humble man who charges him less for his selfless service to the people after they chatted for a bit. Therefore he stays in that town that night.

  
He prays to the Lord above before he goes to bed as usual. Thank you o Lord for our daily bread, for the peace we live in, and forgive us Lord our sins.

  
What sins have I actually committed? He lies in bed and thinks. It’s important to not only say the prayers but to mean it. So what sins have I committed recently? I respected everyone, did not do any wrong, intentionally of accidentally, worshipped God, not one impure thought.

  
But no one is sinless right? Not even for a short period of time. Oliver, you know it, don’t lie to yourself. God forbid you for this dishonesty, God forbid you for this fatal flaw in your corrupted soul. You breaker of the natural laws, like Eve under the tree of knowledge, you perverted mind that had fallen in love with a man.

  
How dare you, Oliver. He is your best friend, he thinks you nothing more but a friend, you’ve not only done offense towards God, you’ve done offense towards him.

  
Drop your thoughts now Oliver and have some self control. Oliver chides himself. You can do this.

  
He lies in bed, alone, the sky now completely dark outside.

  
I can do this.

What makes man greater than beasts is that man can think. They are capable of greatness because of so, though wretched they are, weak, vulnerable, fallible, sinful.

They can think, they can decipher right from wrong and wrong from right. They know sin and they try to avoid it, most likely in vain, but they try.

‘I really want to visit Florence. With you.’

Dante Alighieri, a poet in Florence, once decided to consider lust as the lightest sin, and those who commit such go to the edge of hell, closest to the mortal world. Dante Alighieri, the same person, decided that homosexuality is violence towards God, therefore suffers fiery rain in the seventh circle of the Inferno, for the rest of eternity.

‘With you.’

But for the sinful descendants of Adam and Eve, passion is superior to reason and therefore people fall to sin.

Fiery rain in the seventh circle of hell.

Charles wakes up, the clear sky of yesterday is gone. There are clouds. Gray, pressurizing clouds. With clouds comes rain, not heavy but every drop harmonizes with the wind, howling through creaks on doors, windows, people’s broken souls. The fireplace still burns. The linen is dry, and as Charles expects, it didn’t even leave marks. He gets dressed, goes into the workshop’s front, and starts measuring out the fabric needed for a dress the merchant’s daughter ordered two days ago. Maybe I’ll use the new soft pink silk that just arrived to create the faux rose on the waistline. Maybe I’ll use the delicate handcrafted laces on the collar. No, on the sleeves. No, maybe both. No, that’s too much, too overwhelming, maybe I’ll save it for some other dresses.

He works his day, the sun rises, reaches the highest point it could ever reach in this cool autumn day, then sets, soon at the west horizon. Charles doesn’t see it. The clouds are performing their duty well, diminishing all possible strands of sunlight. The rain is battering on the earth well, making people want to stay inside. The wind is howling on people’s souls well, making them think, utilizing their time in an useless yet sophisticated way.

Charles finishes attaching the last piece of the skirt to the mannequin, and sits next to the fireplace, staring at the flames. The fire is still flourishing, feasting on the logs Charles regularly adds. It’s very important to keep oneself warm in a cold day, if not the most important thing.  
What is the most important thing? Boredom makes people think. Charles thinks, what is the most important thing to me? Life, food, warmth? Sure, but what else? Friends? Family? I don’t have a family, I don’t think I’ll ever have one, but I have friends.

What good is the world if you were to live alone? Even Adam in Eden couldn’t stand being alone, therefore God made him Eve. Then how could a mortal on earth be alone and satisfied, yes, other people are the most important.

A figure jumps into his mind, and he smiles, he himself doesn’t even notice.

Wait.

Why is he the first person to come into my mind? Sure, he is my closest friend, but I feel like that’s not all. But that must be, right? What else is there to it, I respect him, I enjoy being with him.

My life’s quite boring, Charles quietly says to himself, but it’s peaceful, and I like it.

Meanwhile the fatal atmosphere eats his flesh, painlessly at the beginning.

Charles goes out to the public well to collect some water. The rain is ceasing, the weather should be nice, I might as well go out for a walk, he thinks. Therefore he grabs his water buckets, goes to the well, fills them with water, then proceeds to his way back. Everything is normal, in fact too normal, there’s not that many people out on the streets, people are all back home after their long, exhausting day, except for Charles, out on the street, Oliver, not in town, and an old bachelor, sitting on the mossy, worn-out stone steps next to the well. His clothes are ragged and worn, gray and dirty, to the point where Charles didn’t even see him until he retracted his legs from the stretching position, pulled back to reality from whichever paradise he was dreaming about by Charles’s cough.

Gray, dirty, just like dust. What are people exactly. Poor people are nothing but dusts, maybe useful dusts, to the rich people. Rich people are nothing but dusts, maybe high profit dusts, to the aristocrats. Aristocrats are nothing but dusts, maybe some high class respected dusts, to the kings and queens. It’s an hierarchy, but it doesn’t make that much difference. all are dust.

Kings and queens are nothing but dusts, maybe, no, simply pathetic dusts with tremendous egos, to the Grim Reaper.

The next day Oliver wakes up, not quite remembering what happened last day. Why do people need to remember anyways, the past is the past, I’m not a great philosopher whose thoughts are worth remembering. For my own benefit then.

Charles. Those bright blue eyes.

I’m going astray from the current idea I’m focusing on. Back, why do we remember...

His innocent glances. His slim, delicate fingers.

... why do we...

Charles.

It’s stuck in Oliver’s mind. Why are you still not in hell Oliver, why can’t you have the slightest bit of control, you’re this prone to sin. Pray for God’s wrath upon you for if you commit suicide you commit even more sin. You lost the part where you had control and now you have to beg for what you didn’t have to. Pathetic.

With the thought, Oliver packs up his belongings, pays the charge, rides back home.

Charles’s tailor shop is open. Should I visit him, just as a friend checking in, we are very close friends after all. There’s nothing going on between us. I probably should.

But then self control. But then avoiding sins.

Forget about him, forget about how pathetically attracted to him you are. You know this is the right thing to do.

Okay then.

Oliver stays at his cell in the back of the chapel, preparing lessons for the children, dusting and sweeping the room, later that day going into the chapel itself and dusts and sweeps. A state of occupation is by definition a state of distraction, this is what Blaise Pascal lectured, and people, being the wretched being they are, needs distraction to divert them from the important questions.

In this case him.

Charles’s tailor shop is closed. It’s Sunday, of course it is. Also I have to host mass, so another day not only with distraction, but also no chance from the beginning. This is good.

Oliver wakes up early, before the sun is even up. He wakes up early everyday, despite the tiredness that tries to keep him in bed. He can be this determinant on so many things. But one. One exception. One exception to his entire life.

He says the prayers, reads the sermons, glancing casually at the people listening intently. No Charles. Then all he could think is whether he is sick, whether he is alright, whether he shouldn’t have not check on him yesterday.

Whether he feels the same as him. Whether he’s avoiding him for the same reason.

Am I even worthy to be up here, delivering the words of the Lord while allowing sin roam free in my mind.

Charles wakes up from his bed, the sun already quite high up in the sky. I’ve overslept, he thinks. And I’ve missed the mass.

The bell from the chapel rings. It’s noon. That’s how far I’ve overslept, and now I don’t feel like working on the dress. Maybe I’ll find something else to occupy me. Maybe Oliver would come and visit, I haven’t seen him in days. Maybe he won’t and the lady who ordered the dress would come to check on the progress but it’s Sunday and she won’t.

Neither Oliver nor the customer came at the end of the day.

Charles goes to bed, trying to sleep. He can’t. There’s a cloud of worry that haunts him, but he doesn’t know exactly what.

Why didn’t Oliver come? I’m sure I did not upset him accidentally recently. Maybe he’s working on some complicated philosophy. I shouldn’t disturb him then, everyone needs some time to themselves.

But why can’t I bear the boredom and loneliness and... emptiness. I’m mature enough to handle solitude or am I.

Maybe I am. I think there’s something special about him, and it’s not just that he’s my best friend, although I’ve been lying to myself this entire time.

Of course I love him.

Charles’s tailor shop is still closed. Oliver doesn’t want to be a creep, but he can’t help but notice that Charles is, probably, not okay.

Please don’t let this be my fault. If I haven’t develop this feeling towards him, if I had checked on him as his closest friend on Saturday, maybe he would be alright.

Is he sick, Oliver thinks. People can get sick easily these days. He could’ve accidentally cut himself with his scissors and those unbalanced bodily fluids kept it from healing.

I really should go and check on him. After all, his life is more important that my religious virtues. Everyone’s lives are more important than my own virtues. It’s lives after all.

The worst is to commit violence against myself and, hopefully, end up in purgatory and not hell.

But then he could simply be avoiding me. So I guess I shouldn’t.

Does he love someone else, Oliver speaks to himself, is that the case, there’s another person, likely a beautiful young lady, that had captured his soul.

It hurts. It hurts a lot.

The old man who was sitting next to the well goes to visit his friends. Poor but jolly folks, unknowing and uncaring about tomorrow, truly living carpe diem to its words.

There is a second part to the phrase carpe diem.

Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero.

Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the next one.

The fatal atmosphere feasts.

It’s not right to love a man is it, Charles says to himself. No, it’s not. Especially not one that thinks you as a close friend, and especially not one that is a priest.

No, it’s not right to love a man. But there’s a more serious problem. His head hurts, and he can’t stop coughing. I’ve unfortunately got a cold it seems, I’ll rest until it goes away.

So Charles rests.

Charles’s tailor shop is still closed. Also Reverend Brotherhood is nowhere to be found. People are starting to get worried, and rumours start to fly around. Some say that Charles eloped with a girl from another town, some say that Oliver secretly went on a pilgrimage without telling anyone, some say the unthinkable landed upon them.

At the same time, the jolly old man is not feeling well. Black patches start to form on his skin, some gray like life has been drawn out, some dark red like life is still struggling to stay. He spits blood, patches of scarlet on the walls in his home, on the ground, in front of his door.

We’ve sinned too much that God finally makes His wrath descend, people say. That young tailor with a bright future is gone, that kind jolly old fella is going to be gone, our priest who couldn’t have possibly done anything impious is gone.

We’ve sinned too much.

People’ve sinned too much.

People go to the old man’s house in fear of him dying, but not wanting to be close to him in fear of them dying. Although the concept of infection is two hundred years beyond them, people intrinsically fear.

Let’s at least try to find reverend Oliver, one suggests, he would talk to God and bargain this man’s life.

They go into the chapel, knocked on the wooden door behind that haven’t been touched by anyone except for Oliver himself for years, and not receiving a response.

They push open the door, some dust fall, the door cracks.

Oliver isn’t there. What is there is a word, charred black, engraved in the stone walls.

‘anarkia.’

Oliver goes to check on Charles at last. God wouldn’t forgive him for loving him, he wouldn’t forgive himself for losing him.

Who is it? Charles sits up from his bed, his head still dizzy and his body aching.

It’s me. Oliver. Oliver carefully pushes open the door.

Oh.

May I come in?

Please. I’m in the back room.

Are you okay?

I don’t know. Everything hurts.

Let me see. Oliver gently holds Charles’s hand up, worry temporarily taking over the sizzling love hidden inside him.

Does it hurt when I do this?

Yes.

What is that on your arm? Did you get hurt?

The black patch? I don’t know. It was just there.

Does that hurt?

Yes. Charles is calm, under pain but calm nonetheless, but Oliver can see the helplessness hidden under his eyes, like a rock hidden under a clear blue lake of the arctic.

Charles I’m sorry, I should’ve come to check on you earlier, I’m sorry...

It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here now. The more calm Charles appear to be the more pain Oliver feels.

When have you last eaten?

A day ago.

I’ll bring you food. Oliver proceeds to leave through the door.

Oliver, wait.

Yes?

Will I die?


	3. Chapter 3

He will die. And very soon. So will the old man, so will the merchant’s daughter, so will the kind old bachelorette looking after those homeless children, so will the homeless children. God’s wrath or unfortunate, no one knows.

But he’s not the most pathetic. The one that remains after all is. Witnessing people suffer, die, decay in front of him, losing the people he cared so much about, losing the one, his one.

Who would that be.

Although people wasn’t aware of bacteria and the ways of transmission back then, people know that the plague spreads by distance. Oliver knows that the plague spreads by distance, and Oliver knows that the plague is here. Duty calls him to contain this plague, but that means sacrifice. Sacrifice of potentially all the people’s lives to avoid the plague spreading to other towns.

He doesn’t mind dying for this, but there’s other people, other innocent people not knowing what’s wrong, there’s Charles whom he would risk anything to protect, there’s so much more to it.

But if he doesn’t it means a full blown plague taking the lives of all people in the surrounding towns, then even further places, potentially then entirety of England.

To be a villain or to be a supervillain.

People gather in the chapel, after reverend Oliver going around notifying them of the gathering. No one knows what this is about, but all are nervous. For all they know, the plague happened, it had started, and it will continue.

Oliver comes through from the wooden door leading to his room. The crowd silences, and he walks onto the podium.

He doesn’t remember what the exact words of his speech was when he walked down from the podium, he does remember that his mind was full about how ironic it is for a sinner like him to promise everyone that he will be their priest of confession on their death bed, a sinner that condemned the entire town, a sinner that has fell in love with a man. He does remember everyone, scared and afraid as they are, solemnly nod and swear to never leave Eyam, to not spread the plague on other towns, to be created and diminished on the same land.  
Everyone here is a martyr, a saint, worth a record in history, except for me. Oliver thought. I’m a sinner. I’m a devil.

I’m okay with being one if that is what it takes.

But deep down he knows, if Charles doesn’t have the plague already, he would leave everything behind and spend all his savings to take Charles with him to a safe place, maybe Florence, he doesn’t know.

It’s past the point where I can stop or pay for my sins.

Then let it be.

And there goes the town in isolation. People carry on their daily life as normal, and everything goes normally, except for the news of whom and whom fell to the plague that happens every day.

People know what is unavoidable, and people don’t try to avoid it. Quite a lot of times, intelligence carries despair.

The old man next to the well dies first, he dies in front of the very well, sitting there, as if asleep if not for the patches of decaying flesh that started developing before he even die.

He didn’t have the chance to make any confessions.

Then his companion, he dies in his home, and he lived alone for so long that no one realises his death until they smell the corpse.

He also didn’t have the chance to make any confessions.

Reverend Oliver is extremely busy. As the most educated person, the leading figure, he fulfils everyone’s request.

Reverend, my son is ill, please come quick.

Reverend, all my sheep died, I’m starving, please help.

Reverend, I know I’m dying, please hear my confession.

So not only is Oliver’s limbs hurting from walking to places constantly without rest, but Oliver’s heart bleeds.

At least it’s a quick death, he constantly reassures himself, at least they die within days, not like those other plagues that haunt people for months and years, giving false hope then diminishing it ruthlessly.

At least we know we’ll die very soon. I will die very soon. Charles... will die very soon.

Did I cause all these? Is that I’m too sinful a person and the fact that I still preach and host masses startled the Lord?

Did I kill all of them, everyone, with my faulty passion?

Everyone. Including the one I would trade my life for.

Everyone.

Forgive me. Forgive the people. Maybe not forgive me but forgive the people. Forgive Charles.

Take me to hell and release all others.

As if God heard his desperate prayers, part of his request will be fulfilled.

Take him to hell.

Along with the others.

It’s been three days since Oliver had any time to check on Charles. He has been busy, so busy that he didn’t have a single moment to himself, for the past three days.

He is too exhausted to walk to his shop, and too scared to find out when he would see. Please let him be alright. Oliver takes a deep breath, and knocks on Charles’s door.

Oliver? Charles’s voice came from inside, significantly weaker, but better that Oliver imagines.

Yes.

Come in.

Have you been alright since I last came?

Yes. But no.

Charles...

Could you stay for longer? Charles smiles weakly, and tries to grab Oliver’s hand.

I will stay for as long as possible.

I need you.

Oliver’s heart skips a beat. Everything, everything about this man he hopelessly loves, everything tortures him and condemns him, everything.

I’m sorry Charles. I have other people to take care for, I need to be worthy of my occupation.

I understand. Charles closes his eyelids slowly, a drop of tear flowing out from the corner of his eye.

What did I do, what did I just say, I shouldn’t have said any of those, it hurts, but it’s true...

I’m sorry.

No it’s really okay. Oliver, I’m proud of you, I’m honoured of being your friend.

Charles’s heart bleeds from saying that. Maybe, in another possibility, we could be more than friends, maybe in that world we can sinlessly fall in love, maybe in that world there is no plague, maybe...

Maybe in that world you love me too.

Oliver. He tightens the grip on Oliver’s hands, his eyes still closed.

Yes?

Take care yourself.

I will.

Promise me I can see you again. With you being perfectly well.

You will see me again. No matter what.

I will wait for you.

Please do.

They both know Charles is leaving.

They both choose to ignore it.

It’s been another day. Half the people in Eyam have fallen to the plague, some escaped the pain, some still suffering. Oliver is well, Charles is alive.

Life for Oliver is only getting busier by the day. He no longer has the time to eat a proper meal, or sleep for longer than three hours consecutively, but he never complains.

He takes his toil as his redemption.

It’s midnight, and the merchant’s daughter lies in her bed, patches of black and red on her pale skin.

...Father, Son and the Holy Spirit.

Amen. She whispers, the loudest she is capable, then made no more sound.

Oliver walks out of the door.

He goes straight towards Charles’s shop.

Every time he pushes open that door, it takes courage. A lot of courage.

Charles? Oliver quietly asked, afraid to startle him.

You’re back.

I am.

Stay.

I will. Are you okay?

Everything still hurts. He didn’t even open his eyes.

Try to sleep. I will be with you. It’s okay.

Oliver it hurts. I feel like I want to cough blood.

It’s okay. Cough it out.

Blood stains Oliver’s robe, scarlet on black, not even showing. Oliver gently wipes Charles’s mouth with a clean corner of his long robe, not minding Charles gagging out the remaining blood in his mouth onto it.

Don’t leave. Please don’t leave.

I swear to God I won’t. Oliver gently holds Charles’s hand again.

I will always be here. After you heal I will take you to Florence. We could visit all the places you wanted to go. Then we will return to Eyam, and live our peaceful lives. All will be fine.

Okay.

For some reason, people like giving themselves false hopes.

Doesn’t that make everything more unbearable when the day finally comes?

Oliver still hasn’t fallen ill. Even himself can’t believe it, how he interacts with all the sick to the bone, dying people everyday, and he is glad. He could fulfil as many people’s requests as needed before he dies himself. It’s good.

Only a few tens of people are left by now. This plague kills fast, and people accept it calmly, maybe today they are perfectly healthy and strong, the next day they spit blood and die.

The fireplace in Charles’s workshop is dying. No one adds wood anymore, he knows it’s pointless, the pain he feels makes him numb to coldness, and Oliver doesn’t come often enough to keep the fireplace going anyway.

It’s okay.

It doesn’t matter anymore.

Oliver pushes that door open again, not even hopeful to find Charles alive. It’s been almost a week since Charles felt sick, and it would be a miracle if he still lives.

Oliver? Charles’s voice is getting quieter and quieter by the minute.

I’m back.

Charles doesn’t say anything else. He lies there in an ominous silence, his fingertips like ice, but purple, bruised, just like his arms and his legs hidden under his blanket.

Are you...

I’m okay. I’m just really tired today. He squeezes a weak smile at Oliver, the least persuasive in the world, but they both choose to believe it again.

Just wait a few more days, okay? Then you’ll be all well. I promise.

Okay. I trust you.

The speed of deaths decreases, but only really because there’s hardly anyone left.

A young man slightly older than Oliver seems to be the last one today.

Reverend Oliver have heard a lot of confessions lately, needless to say.

I wish I had been better to my mother. She died before I could make any money and look after her.

I confess I have cheated on my wife once. It’s all my fault, my wife was such a nice and beautiful person, I don’t even dream for forgiveness.

I confess for I was mean to beggars. I never realised how equal life is, I always thought I’m somewhat higher than them, forgive me Father.

I confess how I have bothered a young man I fell in love with. I am disturbing his business when I clearly know he wouldn’t love me back anyway.

Who will be my confessor when I die? This question suddenly jumps to Oliver’s mind. I am the one that is the most sinful here. I am the one that needs to confess the most.

I don’t know.

Oliver goes to visit Charles again, somehow slightly more positive on him being alive than last time. Maybe he has gotten used to the miracles.

No one called his name when he pushed the door this time. His heart races to his throat. Maybe he’s wrong this time.

Charles?

No one.

He enters the back room where the bed was, and found Charles lying there, sleeping.

He carefully held his hand, cold, freezing, but burning Oliver’s soul with agonising pain.

Is this it?

......Oliver? Charles opens his eyes very slowly, struggling to do so.

Yes.

As I promised, I waited for you. An invisible smile crept onto Charles’s lips, not even bittersweet, simply bitter and pain.

I knew you would.

Would you help me to sit up? Charles struggles to speak, but still manages to finish his sentence.

You should stay lying and rest...

But there’s some things I want to say. Charles insists.

The worse sense possible creeps into Oliver’s mind.

He carefully helps Charles to lift his upper body up, leaning against the brick wall. It hurts, especially now joints are protruding from Charles’s body, every part in contact with the wall hurt.

Oliver.

Yes?

It hurts to lean against the wall.

I’ll hold you.

Okay.

Oliver silently sits on his bed, pulling Charles over. The intimate position they’re in didn’t even make him feel the contentment of holding his love for the first time, but pain, pure pain.

Like throngs on Christ’s crown, but not stabbing his head.

It’s stabbing his soul, penetrating it, tearing in into little pieces.

Is that better? He carefully secured Charles in his embrace, afraid to break him.

Yes.

Oliver sighed.

We can sit here and not do anything if you want. It’s okay.

I want to make a confession.

Charles’s words scares Oliver.

But you won’t die, you don’t have to make one.

I know. I want to. Charles’s tone is calm, but despite how calm it is, it strikes the final blow to Oliver’s soul.

Okay.

I confess. Charles tries to open his eyes as wide as possible, picking up all his energy at once.

Oliver sits in silence, listening.

A smile crept onto Charles’s face, the same bitterness, the same despair, well hidden behind that unnoticeable upward curvature.

I confess, Oliver, that I love you.

Then his eyes close completely, shielding those crystal like irises, still so clear even at the moment where they face the Grim Reaper.

The little smile remains on his lips, a strange sense of contentment.

And a few days after that the town became deserted. Everyone died.

God’s wrath spared no one.

But no, but that’s false, there’s one left.

Oliver left Eyam at last, he lived there for another month after Charles left him, collected all his belongings, buried Charles behind the Chapel, right in front of the cross high in the sky.

He left, no one knows where he went, no one is there to know where he went, but the merchant from London who came back to bury his daughter said there was a tall young priest heading to Florence in London.

God did punish me, Oliver thought.

Hell is earth without Charles.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello.
> 
> I hope you’re not depressed after reading this, likely in the time of a real-life global pandemic.
> 
> This story is a fanfiction based on a real-life event that happened in the exact year and exact place the story is set in.
> 
> There are references to other classical literatures and musicals, mainly Notre Dame de Paris (the book and musical). Try to find them all this is a fun scavenger hunt ;)
> 
> I’m Lili, I write angsts, take care, bye bye.


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